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| jorie graham |
El
Ángel Guardián De La Vida Privada
Todo
esto fue escrito en la lista del día siguiente.
En la
cual la desocupación desdobla sus cursivas raíces,
pálida
pero efectiva,
y el
largo tallo del ineludible, suma de eventos,
urbanizada
ya su minúscula catedral …
(¿O
es la suma lo que acontece ? )
Si me
doblo, para susurrar, a ellos,
bajo
su campo gravitacional, ahí donde lideran afanosamente
en
bosques, colocando los obsequios afuera, uno a uno, en la senda
esperando
estar en el aire,
esperando
agradar a los chiquillos –
(y
algunos obsequios empapelados y otros sin papel alguno ) –si
mezclo
las invernales hojas del suelo arriba
desde
las rutas, capaz, en una lámina de sol,
en
una fuga-ruta-latitud del sol, lo gelatinoso estaba humedecido suavemente, pensado
principalmente
crujiente,
Deslizar
a bocados, hacia arriba, como si estrangulasen la singularidad del sol
con
este júbilo de abundancia, alrededor y a través de estos transeúntes
no –un digno ardiente bosque enmarañado,
ajustadas
tiernas
hojas adheridas,
oh si !!, sacudida rígidamente esta lista
por la mano izquierda de uno,
y tan
profundo el aburrimiento ocioso en el más verde-engreída mente de uno,
la
apresurada mente dudando de sus clasificaciones,
el
corazón, -ahí en la médula de las hojas
secas- húmedo y tibio en
el
cero de
la
brillante mofa –caracoleando- encima
de las hojas póstumas -el corazón,
exponiendo
sus callejeros descubrimientos,
encrespados
sobre la integridad de la totalidad,
el
corazón intentando hacer tiempo y empequeñecerse,
deslizando
sus delgadas lágrimas en un profundo monedero de cada evento
en la
lista
pronto
marcada –oh qué
satisfacción- cada marca un pequeño
beso,
un
eco del previo, la obligación seca de los límites
deja
de gustar,
acicalada
por dedos meticulosos, por pequeñas invitadas ráfagas que abofetean
el
oro interminable plisado a un lado, sugiriendo
lo
que podría haber sido, cortezando lo que debería…
Hay
jarrones de flores a sus pies.
Hay
predicciones en el aire que respiran.
Se
infiltra con haces de linterna, sus aguas-santas-teñido aire,
abajo
en sus ojos abiertos, el boquiabierto humo negro.
¡Oh escucha estas palabras que
escupo para ti,
mi
distancia hacia ti las hace más altas !!
¿Esperamos
todos a que suene el teléfono ?
¿Quién
debería ser ? Qué fuente se supone que
en lo
sucesivo arrase el misterio del juego matinal ? Qué poderosa cola como de
codorniz
de
promesas,
pléyades, salmos, plataneros,
que
parapeta de pétalos –lo invisible en lo sucesivo
en un
mundo de objetos,
convirtiendo
la lista en su espacio-forma finalmente,
en
sus archivadas colonias de muchas cabezas, muchas piernas…
Oh,
mírate !
¿Qué te detiene ? ¿Qué trozo
de tiempo es el que la lista
no
quiere cubrir ? Tú aquí abajo, en el
teatro de
operaciones –tú, garganta del mundo- tan
diferencial-
(
¿Esperamos todos a que suene el teléfono ?
)-
(
¿Qué dices? ¿Estás en casa? ¿Esperan ansiosos ? )-
Oh
nómada arribado de la grieta, toda tu atención concentrada
--como
si el pensamiento fuera un remo, este barco el último de alguna
flota
original, el capitán se ha ido pero alguno de nosotros
que
miró el invencible plan
aquí
permanece -que miró el coágulo mental
en cuerpos de poderosos hombres,
que
los miró sentarse en silencio mientras las voces en la otra habitación
iluminadas
con pasión, ansiosas, sueños que desembocan,
los
solitarios mientras,
tan tranquilos, cabezas sobre manos
la
idea apenas formándose
en la
base de esa quietud,
la
idea como una morriña justo empezando a doblarse y plegarse y anudarse
lejos
de la abundancia -el plan- antes de ser pensado,
antes
incluso del acuerdo o el nombre –tú eres- conocido- por
el
hombre de x, el resultado de y –antes-
la
mente permanece sacudida rígidamente por las manos
que
apretarían el cráneo incluso más si pudieran,
esa
inútil distracción, esa nada pero esa nada deja filtrar
el
pensamiento, el posible
el
posible y además filamento esperanza finalmente, la filigrana,
sin
las distracciones de la alucinación –-
oh diminuta espora dorada
tamizada al contacto de la buena idea,
la
cual –empieza a distorsionar, al
tomar forma
encaminado
para tomar asiento, latiendo para palpar, la retención –-límite
ahora
finalmente a punto de
levantarse,
a punto de ir a otra habitación –-no
obstante
no
habiendo acabado todavía, aún no -la
inspiración
– antes del credo, antes del plan –
justo
en la morriña – antes de la lista que tu sujetas
en tu
exhausta mano. Oh suéltala.
*/*/*/
traducción ÇÇ
The Guardian Angel Of
The Private Life
All this was written
on the next day's list.
On which the busyness unfurled its cursive roots,
pale but effective,
and the long stem of the necessary, the sum of events,
built-up its tiniest cathedral...
(Or is it the sum of what takes place? )
If I lean down, to whisper, to them,
down into their gravitational field, there where they head busily on
into the woods, laying the gifts out one by one, onto the path,
hoping to be on the air,
hoping to please the children --
(and some gifts overwrapped and some not wrapped at all) -- if
I stir the wintered ground-leaves
up from the paths, nimbly, into a sheet of sun,
into an escape-route-width of sun, mildly gelatinous where wet, though mostly
crisp,
fluffing them up a bit, and up, as if to choke the singularity of sun
with this jubilation of manyness, all through and round these passers-by --
just leaves, nothing that can vaporize into a thought,
no, a burning bush's worth of spidery, up-ratcheting, tender-cling leaves,
oh if -- the list gripped hard by the left hand of one,
the busyness buried so deep into the puffed-up greenish mind of one,
the hurried mind hovering over its rankings,
the heart -- there at the core of the drafting leaves -- wet and warm at the
zero of
the bright mock-stairwaying-up of the posthumous leaves -- the heart,
formulating its alleyways of discovery,
fussing about the integrity of the whole,
the heart trying to make time and place seem small,
sliding its slim tears into the deep wallet of each new event
on the list
then checking it off -- oh the satisfaction -- each check a small kiss,
an echo of the previous one, off off it goes the dry high-ceilinged
obligation,
checked-off by the fingertips, by the small gust called done that swipes
the unfinishable's gold hem aside, revealing
what might have been, peeling away what should . . .
There are flowerpots at their feet.
There is fortune-telling in the air they breathe.
It filters-in with its flashlight-beam, its holy-water-tinted air,
down into the open eyes, the lampblack open mouth.
Oh listen to these words I'm spitting out for you.
My distance from you makes them louder.
Are we all waiting for the phone to ring?
Who should it be? What fountain is expected to
thrash forth mysteries of morning joy? What quail-like giant tail of
promises, pleiades, psalters, plane-trees,
what parapets petalling-forth the invisible
into the world of things,
turning the list into its spatial-form at last,
into its archival many-headed, many-legged colony . . .
Oh look at you.
What is it you hold back? What piece of time is it the list
won't cover? You down there, in the theater of
operations -- you, throat of the world -- so diacritical --
(are we all waiting for the phone to ring?) --
(what will you say? are you home? are you expected soon?) --
oh wanderer back from break, all your attention focused
-- as if the thinking were an oar, this ship the last of some
original fleet, the captains gone but some of us
who saw the plan drawn-out
still here -- who saw the thinking clot-up in the bodies of the greater men,
who saw them sit in silence while the voices in the other room
lit-up with passion, itchings, dreams of landings,
while the solitary ones,
heads in their hands, so still,
the idea barely forming
at the base of that stillness,
the idea like a homesickness starting just to fold and pleat and knot-itself
out of the manyness -- the plan -- before it's thought,
before it's a done deal or the name-you're-known-by --
the men of x, the outcomes of y -- before --
the mind still gripped hard by the hands
that would hold the skull even stiller if they could,
that nothing distract, that nothing but the possible be let to filter
through,
the possible and then the finely filamented hope, the filigree,
without the distractions of wonder --
oh tiny golden spore just filtering-in to touch the good idea,
which taking-form begins to twist,
coursing for bottom-footing, palpating for edge-hold, limit,
now finally about to
rise, about to go into the other room -- and yet
not having done so yet, not yet -- the
intake -- before the credo, before the plan --
right at the homesickness -- before this list you hold
in your exhausted hand. Oh put it down.
On which the busyness unfurled its cursive roots,
pale but effective,
and the long stem of the necessary, the sum of events,
built-up its tiniest cathedral...
(Or is it the sum of what takes place? )
If I lean down, to whisper, to them,
down into their gravitational field, there where they head busily on
into the woods, laying the gifts out one by one, onto the path,
hoping to be on the air,
hoping to please the children --
(and some gifts overwrapped and some not wrapped at all) -- if
I stir the wintered ground-leaves
up from the paths, nimbly, into a sheet of sun,
into an escape-route-width of sun, mildly gelatinous where wet, though mostly
crisp,
fluffing them up a bit, and up, as if to choke the singularity of sun
with this jubilation of manyness, all through and round these passers-by --
just leaves, nothing that can vaporize into a thought,
no, a burning bush's worth of spidery, up-ratcheting, tender-cling leaves,
oh if -- the list gripped hard by the left hand of one,
the busyness buried so deep into the puffed-up greenish mind of one,
the hurried mind hovering over its rankings,
the heart -- there at the core of the drafting leaves -- wet and warm at the
zero of
the bright mock-stairwaying-up of the posthumous leaves -- the heart,
formulating its alleyways of discovery,
fussing about the integrity of the whole,
the heart trying to make time and place seem small,
sliding its slim tears into the deep wallet of each new event
on the list
then checking it off -- oh the satisfaction -- each check a small kiss,
an echo of the previous one, off off it goes the dry high-ceilinged
obligation,
checked-off by the fingertips, by the small gust called done that swipes
the unfinishable's gold hem aside, revealing
what might have been, peeling away what should . . .
There are flowerpots at their feet.
There is fortune-telling in the air they breathe.
It filters-in with its flashlight-beam, its holy-water-tinted air,
down into the open eyes, the lampblack open mouth.
Oh listen to these words I'm spitting out for you.
My distance from you makes them louder.
Are we all waiting for the phone to ring?
Who should it be? What fountain is expected to
thrash forth mysteries of morning joy? What quail-like giant tail of
promises, pleiades, psalters, plane-trees,
what parapets petalling-forth the invisible
into the world of things,
turning the list into its spatial-form at last,
into its archival many-headed, many-legged colony . . .
Oh look at you.
What is it you hold back? What piece of time is it the list
won't cover? You down there, in the theater of
operations -- you, throat of the world -- so diacritical --
(are we all waiting for the phone to ring?) --
(what will you say? are you home? are you expected soon?) --
oh wanderer back from break, all your attention focused
-- as if the thinking were an oar, this ship the last of some
original fleet, the captains gone but some of us
who saw the plan drawn-out
still here -- who saw the thinking clot-up in the bodies of the greater men,
who saw them sit in silence while the voices in the other room
lit-up with passion, itchings, dreams of landings,
while the solitary ones,
heads in their hands, so still,
the idea barely forming
at the base of that stillness,
the idea like a homesickness starting just to fold and pleat and knot-itself
out of the manyness -- the plan -- before it's thought,
before it's a done deal or the name-you're-known-by --
the men of x, the outcomes of y -- before --
the mind still gripped hard by the hands
that would hold the skull even stiller if they could,
that nothing distract, that nothing but the possible be let to filter
through,
the possible and then the finely filamented hope, the filigree,
without the distractions of wonder --
oh tiny golden spore just filtering-in to touch the good idea,
which taking-form begins to twist,
coursing for bottom-footing, palpating for edge-hold, limit,
now finally about to
rise, about to go into the other room -- and yet
not having done so yet, not yet -- the
intake -- before the credo, before the plan --
right at the homesickness -- before this list you hold
in your exhausted hand. Oh put it down.
Jorie Graham
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